


Trade Deadline Magic

by Superstition_hockey



Series: Depth on the Bench [22]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Bells has always got a plan, Captain Canada - Freeform, Gen, Hockey, NHL Trade Deadline, NHL number retirement ceremonies, The Future, Women in Hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 01:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19218934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey
Summary: Henrik Tallberg needs a miracle.





	Trade Deadline Magic

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote something! It's been 8 million years but I finally wrote something again? And hopefully, this little ficlet is a good teaser for the next thing I want to write...

Henrik sets an empty champagne glass down on a table with unsteady hands. Fucking Albertson, smirking fucking jackass with his stupid fucking innuendos. What the fuck did he mean _if the Sens are even in Ottawa next year_?

Thomas wasn’t thinking of selling was he? 

Fuck. Fuck. When Henrik had accepted the GM position he’d only done it because he had a _plan_. A fucking five year plan to get the Sens out of the fucking no-cap-space shitfire McAllister had buried the Sens roster in and he could still do it, even with all the bad injury luck and the shallow as fuck draft year coming up this summer, if they’d just _give him the fucking chance to do it_. 

It wasn’t his fault that the Sens had been so bad over the past five years before he even got there that ticket sales were dwindling dangerously. It wasn’t his fault that Rourke tore his meniscus. It wasn’t his fault that Sharmarke couldn’t clear concussion protocol. It wasn’t his fault it was looking like the worst draft year in the past two decades. He just needed three more years and he could fix it, if they’d just trust him. 

A shimmer of tan skin and white fluttering dress drifts pass him in the crowd. Henrik recognizes that face. 

“Dibs!” he shouts as the woman passes a few feet away. Her head turns. 

“Uncle Bergie!” Bells Teixeira pushes past a few people to get to him, wrinkles her nose. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not,” he protests, somewhat half-heartedly.

“It’s okay.” She pats his shoulder calmly. “I’d drink too if my cap space looked like yours.” 

“So fucking harsh? And this, from my favorite god-daughter?”

“I’m your only god-daughter.” She remains unfazed. “Let’s get some water.” 

Somehow they wind up sitting at a table out of the way of most of the crowd with two glasses of water and a plate of tiny mini quiches. 

“Have you gotten a chance to catch up with Daddy and Papa yet?” 

“Yeah, Linea's still talking to Svetlana actually.” Henrik _was_ happy for his friends. He really was. No one deserved to get their numbers retired more than Jacks and Chants. He just sort of wishes the NHL had picked a slightly less shitty season, so he could have enjoyed the party more. He drinks some more water. “I ran into Albertson.” 

“That evil bastard,” Bells consoles him, “I’ve hated him ever since Seattle. What did he say?” 

“Implied his investor group was going to buy the Sens and put them in fucking Salt Lake.” 

She winces. “How bad is it?” 

“I can’t… I thought we could tank, maybe, refresh our roster this summer, but ticket sales are … low. Nosebleed tickets are going for $20 online. Mitchie’s out for… fuck knows how long. I can’t make room for any kind of first line presence that I need without trading some of the few solid guys I’ve got left that I need for depth, I’m fucked either way I turn, and there’s not enough money to … If Thomas loses faith in my plan and sells before I have time to fix things...” He sighs. “I’m so fucked, Dibs. I don’t want to be the GM that makes Canada lose yet another franchise to the US.” 

“You need generational talent. Big name, big skills, someone who can keep people coming to see the games and spending money, even if there’s no way the rest of the roster can get you into the playoffs this season.” 

Henrik buries his head in his hands, pushes the heel of his palms into his eye sockets and groans. “I can’t afford them. There’s no one that’s even. Fuck … Kirk maybe, if I could get him off Tampa Bay, but they wouldn’t give him up and even if they would, I couldn’t afford him.” 

“Could you steal Tarsha Panikin from the KHL?” 

Henrik huffs. “Already tried. No go. And anyway he’d need time. And he’s not well known enough in North American to really draw a crowd.” 

“Hmmmm…” Bells sips her water, lost, apparently, in thought. She’s wearing the sort of dress Henrik’s daughter has been looking at for her wedding dress - Greco-Roman style folds of cloth, with something gold to hold it at her shoulder. He pokes the curls piled on the top of her head that make her look like some kind of famous statue. “I don’t suppose you have any of that Lucky Luc magic, hidden up there do you?”

“Sorry, Uncle Bergie,” she smiles sadly, “I don’t think--” She stops, face suddenly sharp. “Actually...”

“What?”

“I'm just thinking, but...”

“Ummm….If you’ve got an idea in that scary fucking brain of yours, Baby-Bells….”

“No. Shut up. So. You need generational talent.”

“You said that already, I agreed.” Henrik sighs. He knows it. She hasn’t said anything he didn’t already know and already know he couldn’t get. He’s so fucked.

“You need the head-turning best fucking player in hockey right now. You need someone with leadership. Someone with charisma. With skill and play-making ability. You need someone with legacy.”

“Ummmm.”

Bells’ face is intent, focused. “Who better to save your ass than Captain Canada?” 

A laugh startles out of Henrik’s chest. “Bells...haha...Um...I mean.”

“Tell me. Look in my fucking face, Uncle Bergie, and tell me she’s not the best player in the game right now.”

“She’s amazing, but, Bells.”

“Name one reason she won’t work.” 

“Well, she’s…”

“If you say she’s a _she_ , I will punch you.” 

“Checking?” he offers feebly.

“She grew up playing with my brothers, she knows how to fucking check.” 

“Ummmm… size?”

“She’s 5’10”, like half the other assholes in the league that lie and say they’re 6'0.” 

“She’s thirty, Dibs.”

Bells leans back in her chair. “So what? Here you were fantasizing about the Lightning selling you Kirk and he’s 29. You don’t need to offer an eight-year contract. You just need enough time to build the roster back up.” 

“The room… how would that … work?”

Bells shrugs. “You've still got Krovy on your 3rd line, right, with an A? He was one of our rookies. He and Katya are still close friends. He'll smooth the way. I know part of why you've kept him is his off-ice value with room cohesion.”

“Fuck.”

Bells just stares at him.

“Fuck. I ...Fuck. Dibs, I gotta go make a call. Do you think she’ll actually think about it?” 

“I mean, I think if you’re going to convince her to live in _Ottawa_ you’re definitely going to offer her over 10 mil, but sure. You can afford that once Rourke's officially on LTIR, right?” 

Barely. But yeah, he could. “Shit. Shit. I gotta. I need a cup of coffee. Fuck. Is it, can it... I gotta check the league rules.” 

“I've already looked. There's nothing specifically against it.”

Fuck. Henrik looks over to where Katya Teixeira is laughing in conversation with her mom, Stanley Cup glinting over her shoulder on its dais. 

Fuck it, he decides. He doesn't know if the NHL is ready, but they better fucking _get_ ready. Henrik is going to sign the first woman to a full season contract in the NHL. 

Now he just has to somehow convince her move to _Ottawa_. He takes a deep breath, and puts on his best GM face. 

His eye strays back to the Cup. A flutter of hope stirs in his chest. It would take a miracle, but luckily he knows a family that's good at those.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still on tumblr somewhat at superstitionhockey


End file.
